


Trine

by spacemonkey



Category: U2
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-01
Updated: 2017-05-01
Packaged: 2018-10-26 08:49:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,183
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10783488
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spacemonkey/pseuds/spacemonkey
Summary: Three times Bono and Edge found themselves overcome in a semi-public place.Set during Zoo-TV era.





	Trine

**Author's Note:**

  * For [fouroux](https://archiveofourown.org/users/fouroux/gifts).



> As usual, this is Jana's fault. And as usual, I am sorry for a planned sexy fic turning out to be....well, more funny than sexy. I'm sorry. But THIS WAS FUN, JANA. This was written in one sitting tonight, so any errors are due to me being a frenzied mess

Edge had always thought of himself as possessing a somewhat rational mind.

But there was only so much a man could take before they lost their fucking mind, and a man he surely was. Merely flesh and blood, and today, for some _incredible_ reason, most of that blood seemed intent on rushing to one singular part of his body. In such cases, being a man trumped being rational, and he was left without a brain, without a thought. It was all incredibly inconvenient. Another time he might have welcomed it. He _had_ welcomed it. But backstage, surrounded by people with _expectations_ , people who relied on him to be the stable one?

Problematic was a word that sprung to mind.

There was a guitar in his hands, and his fingers were doing . . . something _._ He didn’t know what though. He wasn’t even entirely sure he could remember the set-list. There may also have been a chance that Edge had forgotten what he was even doing in life in general. It was just one of those days. Infuriating was a word that sprung to mind. Tantalizing was another. But his hands were doing _something_ , muscle memory coming through as it often did. At some point someone said to him, “Gonna be a good show tonight, yeah?”

With a smile, Edge replied, “You bet!” and that someone proceeded to clap him on the shoulder before carrying on. Edge’s smile stayed though, even as his vision shifted, blurred, then focused -- zooming straight in on Bono’s leather-clad arse.

There was only so much a man could take. And, after three days straight of watching Bono slinking around backstage like the tart he was, with not a single moment alone together to be found, Edge had reached the end of his rope.

Earlier in the day he had said to Bono, “Do you have a minute,” his voice coming out shockingly even. “Alone?”

“A minute alone?” Bono had parroted back. His smile had been cocksure. “Why do you need me alone?”

“ _Bono_.”

“ _Edge_.” The smile had stayed, and then, when Edge had just stared him down, Bono had leaned in close and purred, “Don’t I deserve more than a minute?”

And before Edge had been able to either confirm or deny, Bono had been off again to bother Larry and flirt with the wardrobe girls and sneak a smoke and do everything and anything that he had deemed so terribly fucking important; things that took far longer than what Edge had had in mind. In theory, anyway. It wasn’t like he wanted sex outright, after all. Mostly he just wanted to blow off some steam. Cop a feel. Have a taste of what was to come. Trick his mind into thinking he had done enough, so that he could focus. Because Christ, without it his brain was close to fried.

Ever the patient man, though, Edge waited it out. With a guitar in his hand and a vacant smile on his face, replying when people talked to him, laughing along at god knows what, he waited. Until they were finally alone in the dressing room together. The door was unlocked, and through it he could hear the commotion still, people rushing about readying everything for the show. No doubt soon someone would come searching for them, with those _hurrythefuckup_ eyes that he knew so well. Sometimes that someone was Larry. And usually Larry had more to say than just that look in his eye.

But for now they were alone. He wasn’t sure if Bono realized, though the place had gone oddly quiet. All afternoon Bono had been loud enough for the both of them, but now he was quiet himself, occupied in front of the mirror. His leather jacket was missing but the rest was all there, black shirt and leather pants that clung wonderfully in all the right places. Twice he ran his hand through his hair, and it seemed ridiculous to be jealous of a hand, but tonight apparently Edge was ridiculous.

“You’re quiet.”

Edge raised an eyebrow. “Am I?”

“You’re up to something.”

“Is that so?”

Bono glanced over his shoulder. “Hmm.”

“That’s it? Just ‘hmm’? Usually you’re full of questions.”

Bono sighed. “What can I say, Edge,” he said with a shrug, and for a moment it seemed as though he was going to continue that train of thought. But then he was silent again, turning back towards the mirror and leaving Edge hanging. As usual. He was smiling though, without even trying to hide it. Edge watched his reflection. The hand returned, smoothing down any errant hairs before mussing it all up again. Finally, Bono said, “You have your minute,” before shrugging. “If you want it still.”

Edge chuckled, though he felt the need to remind Bono (and possibly himself), “At any moment someone could walk through that door,” pointing toward said door as if Bono had suddenly forgotten its single purpose, “looking for us.”

Bono glanced over his shoulder with a grin. “Is that so?” Turning back towards the mirror he let out a thoughtful, “Hmm.”

It was all Edge needed to hear.  


* * *

 

Edge couldn’t quite remember how long they had been at the bar. Time slipped away from him sometimes. Often. A lot of the time, and it became worse with a drink in his hand, and he couldn’t quite remember how many of those he had enjoyed either. It was probably more than two. And they had probably been at the bar more than a while. But he was feeling pretty good about it, just warm and happy, not even close to drunk. He knew what drunk felt like. And warm and happy was a part of it, sure, but there was much more to it than that, and he wasn’t feeling any . . . of that.

He was just in the perfect state of mind.

“Another round?” asked a voice, and they all agreed with a mighty cry, half-drunk glasses being raised in the air, and when he turned his head his vision didn’t slide, but still Bono smiled at him from across the table.

A boot connected with Edge’s shin, and Bono’s smile grew. “Comfortable?” he asked, loud enough to be heard over the music.

Automatically, Edge said, “What?” before his brain caught up to what had been said. “I guess?”

Bono was still smiling. “That’s a pity,” was all he said though, before pushing his chair back and leaving Edge to mull over what Bono meant by that exactly.

Admittedly, it took him far too long. And it wasn’t because he was drunk. He could walk and talk straight, after all. And as soon as realization struck, certainly Edge found himself able to think straight, and focus. Though it was on one single thing, and as soon as the thought crossed his mind, he found himself feeling an awful lot like a shark catching its first whiff of blood in the water. He sobered up pretty quickly after that. Perhaps. Mostly. Not that he had been drunk in the first place. He was just warm and happy, even now, _especially_ now that the hunt was on.

Adam returned to the table just as Edge was vacating it. “Where are you going?”

Edge grinned madly, clapping Adam on the shoulder. “I’ve got to piss!" he exclaimed.

Across the room he went, following the path Bono had taken. The floor was sticky beneath his shoes, and the door to the bathroom had seen better days. They weren’t in a total dive. The place had a VIP section, after all, and tonight Edge was thankful to be separated from the world. Though the place wasn’t exactly full. The bathroom was a free-for-all, though, and, as he walked inside, silently Edge prayed for some alone time.

It wasn’t the most holy of things to pray for, but it seemed somewhere up there, someone was listening. He considered locking the door, for the briefest of moments.

Bono lingered by the basin, ignoring Edge. His shirt was wrinkled and unruly, untucked from leather pants. His hair looked just as wrinkled and unruly, drying in waves, and when he closed his eyes Edge pictured him caught up in a song, as he had been barely a few hours before. And when he sighed with his eyes still closed Edge pictured something else entirely, something wicked and delicious. Such a thought was enough to push him forward. It might have even been enough to push him further still, though he had no idea quite how far he could go. For now, he was content to just touch Bono, and with a firm hand he did.

A gasp left Bono’s lips as he was pushed face first into the wall, a chuckle quickly following, even as he tried to wriggle from Edge’s grasp. It was no use, though he tried for a while, huffing and squirming, whining, “ _Eddggee_ ,” as though he hadn’t orchestrated the whole damn thing. Well, Edge was pretty sure he had. Though he’d been wrong before. A few times, though Bono never seemed to mind. Complained, yes, but that was just how life went. “Edge. The _door_.”

Edge spared a quick glance towards the door before turning back, pushing harder when Bono almost broke free, the two of them staggering together. Maybe he was a little drunk. There was a chance. But he was feeling a little dangerous too, and although he had no idea where such a notion had come from, Edge welcomed it gladly.

Slowly Bono started to settle, though he was breathing heavily, a giggle briefly escaping as his shoulders loosened. His pulse was racing at his wrist, his skin growing clammy beneath Edge’s grip. He smelled of sweat and cigarette smoke. Edge breathed him in before saying, “Do you think it’s fair on me, you strutting around looking like you want to be fucked, when we both know I can’t do a thing about it?”

Edge could count two lies in what he had just said, as it had been days since Bono had done any strutting (though most times still he looked as though he, perhaps not _wanted_ , but _should_ be fucked), and there were plenty of things that Edge could do about such a predicament. Whether or not it was fair on him was not entirely clear, and he didn’t really care enough to spare another thought. Two lies, at least, and two was more than enough to make Bono grin.

Still, he was slow to answer. “Why can’t you?” His body was becoming too warm, his inner thigh warmer still, though Edge couldn’t stand to pull away. The leather felt wrinkled against his palm as he ran his hand slowly up and down, creeping higher and higher between Bono’s legs until he heard the stuttered breath.

“Too many people around.”

Bono let out a wry laugh. “Why Edge,” he said, “there’s no one in here now though.”

“True, but who knows who, or what, might come walking through that door.”

“About that door . . .” Tilting his head back, Bono whispered in Edge’s ear, “You could lock the fucking thing.”

It was effortlessly predictable, as though they were reading words from a script. Edge knew exactly how he was expected to answer, how Bono wanted him to answer.

“I could do a lot of things if I wanted to.”

He was right. The words worked wonders, bringing out a full bodied shiver in Bono. It was a powerful feeling, reducing someone to such a state. Mostly Edge thought of himself as placid. But in such a situation, with such a warm body pressed up against him, soft and hard in all the right places and _pliant_ , Edge couldn’t help but get a bit . . . excitable.

“You get off on this, don’t you?” Bono had asked on another night, not so long ago.

“. . .no, I just-”

“Yes you do.” Bono had laughed warmly, though his eyes had been dark. “It’s always the quiet ones. Though I shouldn’t be surprised really.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

Bono had winked. “Whatever you want.”

They’d never quite finished that conversation in full. They had never really had to. There was an understanding. At least, Edge thought there was. No, he was sure of it. Mostly. It wasn’t really the time for mulling things over, though. Bono was pushing back against him, letting out breathy little moans like they were in the midst of something far more provocative, and Edge spared a quick glance towards the door before turning his attention to where it was needed most. Bono’s neck was slick and tasted of sweat. His earring clinked against Edge’s teeth, and Jesus he just kept on moaning, and when Edge’s palm found the jut of his hipbone he twisted, turning into the touch, mumbling something that wasn’t quite words, but made sense nonetheless. And then he was gasping, bucking into the hand at his crotch, leaning back against Edge and pushing forward, and when he laughed it was contagious. “Oh fuck,” Bono let out. “Oh this is a terrible fucking thing, Edge.”

It was. Dimly Edge could hear the music through the wall. How long had they been left alone? Time seemed a distant concept, though he understood enough to know it had been awhile, and that in itself was indeed odd. But when Bono turned in his arms, he didn’t dare try and stop him. He was feeling a bit drunk again, not that he’d been drunk before, just warm and happy, and those sensations had also returned in waves. They kissed, slow and easy at first, and then things turned a little frantic. “Stalls?” Bono mumbled against his mouth, and Edge responded with a, “Mmph,” and just as they started to gravitate elsewhere, the door opened.

Edge stepped away, though he knew it was too late. It was pure reflex that caused him to glance towards the door. He imagined the scandalous headlines that might occur, the breaking news and the aggressive journalists, and then he realized that the person who had entered was just Larry.

But still, it was _Larry_. Who stopped in his tracks when he saw the scene in front of him, eyes flickering back and forth before widening when realization set in.

Edge was left lost for words, but Bono, calm as he ever had been in life, just smoothed down the front of his shirt like nothing weird had happened, like he wasn’t visibly aroused, before wandering over towards the mirror, almost strutting even as he went. He threw over his shoulder, “Something on your mind, Larry?”

Larry just shook his head, saying, “Not a damn thing.”

 

* * *

 

It was curious, the way Bono was smiling at him.

Curious because it didn’t quite seem like a smile that belonged in a diner, not even at such a time on such a night after a few beverages. It wasn’t complete amusement, that smile, nor was it entirely suggestive (though it was, a little, like most of Bono’s smiles Edge’s way seemed to turn. Really, they never planned it that way. It’s just how life was, apparently). Edge was left a little bemused. “What’s so funny?” he asked, fully expecting Bono to warmly answer, “You,” as he often did when such a question was posed by Edge and seemingly no one else. Mostly, Edge was never doing anything that he thought could be funny, but then Bono didn’t quite see the world the way normal people did. Just sitting, like they were doing right then and there, was apparently enough to bring forth a smile and an answer of _you_ , so it was worth asking.

Instead, Bono slowly surveyed the room, then leaned in close to speak in Edge’s ear. “We’re in a prime position, Edge.”

Edge didn’t quite follow. “In life?”

Bono let out a laugh. “No,” he said, then paused. “Well, yes. But that’s not what I mean.” He left it at that, straightening in his seat before reaching for his glass.

Edge waited. He mulled it over, trying to place himself in Bono’s mind, which was always an interesting endeavor, and follow the train of thought until it was fully realized. He didn’t get far, mostly because he couldn’t be bothered. Most nights, yes, he had the patience. But it was getting late, he was tired, the food hadn’t been what he’d hoped, and Bono was being more elusive than normal. Plus, someone had set the jukebox to play _Message in a Bottle_ straight four times over, and Edge was still trying to recover. Mostly he thought of himself as being placid, but there was only so much a man could take.

Rubbing his forehead deeply, Edge asked, “ _How_ are we in a prime position, Bono?” It came out sounding far more patient than he felt.

Bono eagerly sprung forward in his seat. It seemed he had been waiting for the magic word. Or question. “Tucked away where we are, in our own little booth,” he said, gesticulating wildly at the booth they were sitting at. His eyes were red rimmed, and it wasn’t just from being tired. There had been a few beverages for sure, though Edge could count the ones he had enjoyed on a single hand. Bono, he wasn’t so sure. He’d stopped paying attention after a while. “When is the last time you saw someone cross in front of us, or approach the table?”

“When the waitress brought that second bottle?”

“When the waitress . . . yes.”

“Right.” Edge nodded. “Though, have you considered that no one has come along because almost no one is inside the diner?”

Bono waved a hand. “It’s not that late.”

“I didn’t say it was late.”

“There’s also the tablecloth to take into account.”

Again, Edge found himself rubbing at his forehead. They should have left a good half an hour ago. They could have been back at the hotel by now, where there were not nearly as many things for Bono to be distracted by. “The tablecloth.”

Bono cocked a single eyebrow, like he often did when he thought he was being clever. “I would say it goes more than halfway down towards the floor, wouldn't you?"

Edge looked. He wasn’t sure why. Maybe because he knew it would make Bono smile, and it did, that same curious smile as before. “It does go pretty far down,” he confirmed, and Bono squirmed in his seat like an excitable school boy. “You know, why don’t we leave? I’m sure there’s something more exciting we could find to pass the time back at the hotel.”

Bono rolled his eyes and said, “You’re not listening to me, Edge,” before pulling Edge’s hand and forcing it against his crotch.

“Bono,” Edge hissed, yanking his hand back. Or at least, he tried to, but Bono’s grip was shockingly strong. “ _Bono_ , someone will see.”

“Past the _tablecloth_?” Bono hissed back.

“Yes!” Edge exclaimed, then stopped. He looked at the tablecloth, and then at Bono’s smug little smile, and quickly the pieces slotted neatly into place. “Oh.”

“Like I said,” Bono said with a wink, “prime position.”


End file.
